The Muse
by Gabriela Castell
Summary: Untouched was she and safe before his return to the world, a light that could never go out but he appears and surrounds her, consumes, takes something so young and perfect only to taint only to ruin, to possess and use...because he can... "I have come to lead you to the other shore; into eternal darkness; into fire and into ice." John Wilmot/OC
1. Ophelia's song

**Di** **sclaimer:** I do not own the Libertine or any recognizable historical figures or characters all I own is the plot of this story and unrecognizable characters including the main OC

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" _Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven"_

-Ophelia, Hamlet Act I Scene III

Chapter I: Ophelia's Song

A tall actor in a romantic tunic and darkly tights approach in forward manner, his tone condescending and lively with spark and dramatic irony, some may even consider it to be satire, perhaps the thespian considered this mood of portrayal to be accurate of the dark prince for the fictional majesty harbored macabre humor and rude, sarcastic wit. The pretending Hamlet practically galloped over in gallant manner to a young woman (hardly a _woman_ , practically a girl still, just bloomed into mature appearance) a breath-taking sight to behold is what those who have seen her previously in _Tristan and Isolde_ claim her to be, her features darker than society's fair-haired view of beauty but nonetheless it was impossible to ignore the starlet's comeliness.

How luck had struck her, her hair fell in black silk down to a length most of the weaker sex dreamed of possessing, her ebony, wavy ribbons rippled just pass her ample posterior, framing a heart shaped face with roundish cheeks that did not take on any blooming, rosy coloring like most Western girls, for this ingenue was of Iberian and Mediterranean lineage and held an olive complexion most would find in sicily, southern Greece, or spain. Her lips so full and pouting naturally taking a dusky rose pigment, and eyes so wide with innocence despite being a slave to the playhouse, there on her picturesque face were a pair of unusual eyes that were enticingly queer due to the rare shade, a violet-blue that favored a sparkling amethyst more, eyes that were as famous as her convincing acting.

" _I have heard of your paintings too, well enough. God hath_

 _given you one face, and you make yourselves another. You jig, you_

 _amble, and you lisp; you nickname God's creatures and make your_

 _wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I'll no more on't! it hath made_

 _me mad. I say, we will have no moe marriages. Those that are_

 _married already- all but one- shall live; the rest shall keep as_

 _they are. To a nunnery, go.._ " The tall actor had exclaimed to the violet-eyed Ophelia with sarcasm melting into well portrayed anger and betrayal of his supposed lover. His rage was convincing, it was believable which was his job but all he did was his job he didn't feel it that was clear but he played it well.

On the other hand the dark-haired Ophelia was trembling, her lavender gaze stinging with tears that spilled down her cheeks like drops of diamonds, her soft and small shoulders that were exposed in the thin, white-pale blue dress that was more of a nightgown than proper dressing had shuddered with fear and her voluminous lips painted a reddish color for the stage, frowned with loss, her body language displayed the loss of love and exposed herself as a woman who has given everything to the man she loves only to have him spit in her face and practically call her a whore and her father a pimp, the audience was silent some even shed tears for they felt pity for poor, naive Ophelia's pain, the maternal wished to console her, and then she spoke her voice soft, but her volume heavy and blustering with sound so all in the theatre could hear her woes, her Castilian accent subtle as she pronounced a more English sounding inflection to appease her spectators as she recites Ophelia;

" _O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!_

 _The courtier's, scholar's, soldier's, eye, tongue, sword,_

 _Th' expectancy and rose of the fair state,_

 _The glass of fashion and the mould of form,_

 _Th' observ'd of all observers- quite, quite down!_

 _And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,_

 _That suck'd the honey of his music vows,_

 _Now see that noble and most sovereign reason,_

 _Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh;_

 _That unmatch'd form and feature of blown youth_

 _Blasted with ecstasy. O, woe is me_

 _T' have seen what I have seen, see what I see!_ " Her sheer, white veil swept around her form, her gossamer, wispy gown with bell sleeves and exposed shoulders, her gauzy hem falling to pastel green material pretending to be silk flats, her wide, tearful eyes that were rimmed with theatre kohl to pronounce the eyes for the audience's vision, cheeks wearing rouge paint for the role of a nymphet. The Latin Ophelia shook with her sobs but her words were clear and she fell to her knees as her virginal material floated gracefully around her and soon the curtains drew closed and the scene ended and the audience was in awe but they had to wait for the end for the Norse King to claim the Danish throne to cheer and clap and weep for the Ophelia that made all of England forget all about Lizzie Barry's drowning maiden.

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From the box seats the merry gang resided with their cocaine and their libation and witty remarks, pounding walking sticks stomping on the wooden floors and judgmental eyes assessing the production threaded together by the Duke's Company.

"Well I can see why she's the King's Favorite." George Etheredge rubbed his nose after taking a sniff from a compact with snowy dust, Charles sackville eyed a wandering scarlet woman before pulling her into his fleshy lap causing the woman of ill repute to put on a giggle for her customer. "I think we can all _see_ why the spaniard is the King's Favorite!" Cackled sackville crudely as he eyed the streetwalker's cleavage.

"Yes, she is a buxom little minx isn't she?" Etheredge remembered what he saw of her from his seat and allowed a smirk to lift the right corner of his thin mouth.

The dramatist sir Etheredge had to cast a curious glance at his arrogantly appealing friend oh he just HAD to it was an absolute must to see what the infamous, the notorious Earl of Rochester was thinking about the spanish rose that has planted herself in English soil during a Protestant era.

His friend's reputation was a famous one, a man who has escaped death more than a cat's nine lives and recently recovered miraculously from a fatal illness, back in the King's favor as long as he comes up with a play by the end of the month, it wasn't fair the man ate more than he deserved.

Looking at him now he knew the sardonic Earl had the Iberian starlet on his mind but in what manner? Lust was there yes of course but that was not the main focal point...it couldn't be that he found a new Elizabeth Barry for the girl was not a horrid actress, quite the opposite she exceeds pass those who have been patrons to the stage for decades so he could not be her guide and mold her like a Pygmalion character...what was it this time Johnny?

"What thoughts do you have on the spaniard John?" sackville had asked him and in return he received a fleeing Earl that disappeared from the box, to where? Well George had an inkling...


	2. The Mighty Earl of Rochester

**Disclaimer: I do not own John Wilmot, please review :)**

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" _The city cast_

 _Her people out upon her, and Antony,_

 _Enthroned i' th' marketplace, did sit alone,_

 _Whistling to th' air, which, but for vacancy,_

 _Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too_

 _And made a gap in nature."_

-Anthony and Cleopatra, Act II scene II

Chapter II: The Mighty Earl of Rochester

Yesterday early morn she could not sleep, her eyes refused to remain closed and every slight movement or sound she heard or assumed she had heard distracted her. It was before the roosters crowed and she had decided to go fill the cauldron in the fireplace with water, lighting the fire to cause it to steam, and retrieved the roses she had just been given by a wealthy admirer of hers, they were clean and had obviously been brought for they were beautiful and soft taking on a pink colour. Removing the petals from the stems, she poured them into the water-filled cauldron and placed the lid on top, and when the water had stolen the pale red color of the petals to make an oil like substance, she had poured it into a jar straining the water and leaving the lifeless petals behind.

Now she was backstage, curtain call had ended, her beloved audience showered her with tearful affection, she was sitting before her table and mirror with that jar of rosewater and dipped a cloth into the sweet liquid and used it to remove the makeup from her face, it took off the paint effectively and made her skin soft and smooth, leaving it without flaws and deters scarring, sometimes she'd even wash her hair in it for it causes the luster in her locks, her mother had taught her this before she had died, the Italian opera singer had many tricks up her sleeve that she had passed down to her illegitimate daughter.

There is a story behind the Ophelia who was before that the Princess Isolde and before the Irish princess made her debut on the London stage as the innocent and idealistic Juliet Capulet. The story began in Castille at a Opera House, affections between a conquistador and the Neapolitan wife of a Barcelonian composer exchanged in heated passion after love letters and vehement stares...

Approaching her now as she removed her heather crown and veil was a devoted admirer of the young actress, a Viscount of thirty-seven years holding a bouquet of orange roses, being most fluent in the language of flowers she knew the affluent gentleman was expressing his desires for her and she smiled softly not shy at all for she was used to the constant attention.

Despite being spoiled with affections from various men, the young ingenue was the only virgin in the playhouse even while being the King's favorite, she denied their desires for her flesh but they were already obsessed with her, infatuated with the smell of her skin that wore the perfume of roses, forever lost in the depth of her violet eyes, yearning to tangle their fingers in her raven-black hair that cascaded like a mourning veil behind her, lustful for her bee-stung lips and seduced by her silvery voice, exotic accent, the art of her stage presence, just the entirety of her alone they do not mind giving her everything.

This of course caused her to be without friends, being a foreigner already caused suspicion but this only separated her more from the other actresses.

"May I interest you in taking a stroll with me?" The Viscount removed his feathered hat and held it against his heart.

The young starlet pursed her lips and lowered her gaze, her long, dark eyelashes swept down, her body language indicated upcoming rejection.

"I'm...sorry Viscount, I must decline..." Her apologetic tone was genuine and the Viscount had approached her carefully and his cool fingertips brushed against the apple of her cheek, his eyes forgiving and her smile was contrite and the Viscount admired her.

"My little spanish rose...although, you're not truly mine are you?" The nobleman's timbre was sorrowful and already he was missing her. "How much longer...no, I cannot stand it not anymore, I fear this might be the end of our meetings..."

The ingenue stared up at him with her glimmering lilac orbs only making it harder for the Viscount. "It hurts me more doesn't? Probably doesn't even effect you...God you're so young..." And he pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek and trembled before he placed his hat back on his head and he fled from the scene, the other actresses watching her with disdain believing she has no right to turn down such an affluent man of nobility.

With a soft breath from intensity she turned back to her mirror staring at her reflection, her chest heaving and her teeth tugging on her lower lip and she brushed a lock of hair away from her face. No, she refuses to be an opportunist, but isn't she already? Taking advantage of these wealthy men that endorse her because of their desire for her...

Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard the faint tapping of a walking stick and the clicking of heels, she turned thinking she might find the Viscount returning but a soft gasp escaped her lips when she saw that it was not the Viscount but it was a different man with an intense umber gaze with purpose in his look, fingers curled around the walking stick completely dressed, cravat, hat, wig and all. The starlet could not deny that the man is uncommonly handsome with sharp jaws and an attractive mouth, his demeanor was severe though and she felt uncomfortable under his potent stare, the thespian squirmed in her seat before clearing her throat and looked up at him turning in her seat, her Castilian accent subtle but apparent, her sable black pouring down. "May I be of service for you my lord?"

He approached her closer, all eyes on the both of them, she gulped and the smell of lavender oil and alcohol had reached her nose encasing her. The starlet was at a loss and her mouth parted slightly, there was interest in his eyes.

"You are the one they speak of, you are the Cleopatra of the stage the little girl that ruins men, a demoness, a succubus, Lilith in the flesh of an angel." His words spilled from his mouth in poison, or perhaps his insults were meant to be compliments? Was he the sort of man that was allergic to niceties? Who was this accusatory character the starlet did not know how could she? she has only been here for a year.

He continued. "You haven't even spread your legs you said not once they say." He spat with distaste and confusion in his eyes and the look made her feel ill with guilt.

"No do not appear to feel guilty, do not continue to look as if you care it only allures them more it only makes you look vulnerable and soft and feminine pronouncing your vanity."

Why was he treating her like an Anne Boleyn? Why was he doing this and who was he to have the liberty to behave in such way?

"My lord-"

"Ah! she speaks! Not only pretty verses but attempting defenses, well speak finish your thought." he commanded as if she were his servant.

The actress took a deep breath and kept her tears of humiliation away. "If I may be so bold my lord, may I inquire your person? Who are you my lord?"

He stopped his pacing to pause and glared at the young woman. "Who am I you ask? Pray tell me child, how long have you been on English soil?"

she gulped and looked down and he chastised her for this. "Look at the person who speaks to you, look at me!"

she jumped and took a deep inhale before staring into his chestnut eyes. "A year my lord, I come from Castille."

"so I've heard."

she wanted to look away she needed to look away he terrified her this stranger this handsome and vicious stranger.

"John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester." He named himself at last and she showed no recognition of his name nor title and there was a brief flicker of perplexity and surprise in his eyes but it passed.

"Well, shall you keep taking without giving? Will you continue holding up your reputation or will you return my gesture." He jeered and she felt her cheeks warmed with offense but rose gracefully.

The starlet curtsied eloquently which was a tell tale sign that she had come from a class higher than the theatre. "Gabriela Castell my lord, but I am called Gabbie Castell here." Her accent was strong in the pronunciation of her name and there was a glint of regard in his stare. "Well Gabbie Castell, I expect for you to arrive at Ditchley in Oxfordshire in two days time, it will benefit for you to show up." And with that he disappeared from her sight leaving her puzzled, frightened and a little excited.


End file.
